“You think she could’ve done it?” Jim asked.
“Iluh?” I turned it over in my head. “No. I think she loves her grandmother. But also Iluh doesn’t have strong ties to the community. Jenglots don’t exactly slither around in the street. They are unique to Indonesia. She might have known of them but not where to get them or who could summon them.”
“Do you know who could summon them?” he asked.
“And that right there is the thing.” I frowned at him. “Most people from Bali do a little bit of magic. Every time you make an offering, you do magic. It’s not uncommon for people to occasionally sacrifice things. But jenglots are tied to black magic. A typical witch doctor might make a jenglot like a voodoo doll, and then feed it magic and blood and hope it would come to life and do his bidding. Or they might buy an aborted fetus, embalm it, and make a tuyul out of it.”
Jim blinked.
“It’s a thing,” I told him. “But anyway, I would know. I am the chosen of Barong. I’m the White Tiger, a force for good, and I guard the balance. When a black magician does something like create a jenglot or unleash a tuyul, it creates an imbalance and I correct it. It would be the same if I tried to use my power for something unnatural, like stave off a normal illness in my relative. I could save them for a time, but a chosen of Rangda, the Demon Queen, would appear and undo what I had done. The balance must be maintained. Right now there is no champion of Rangda in the community. He went to live with his daughter in Orlando, because he is elderly and she is worried about his health. And if there was a new one, he or she would come and talk to me. It would be my business to know about them and their business to know about me.”
“You would talk?” Jim asked.
I nodded. “We would both be guardians of balance. Do you remember that Russian, the one who is the priest of the God of All Evil?”
“Roman?” Jim asked. “Yes. Nice guy.”
I spread my arms. “It’s like that. I could have a nice, civil meal with the chosen of Rangda. Not that we would like each other and some of them do go nuts and become aggressive in her name, but it’s about balance. Summoning fifty jenglots, that’s not balance. That’s some crazy shit, that’s what that is.”
We stopped by the deli. It looked dark. The paper sign read: CLOSED. I tried the handle. Locked. Hmm. If Vasil was being eaten by jenglots, too, there was something seriously bad going on.
We moved on to the Family Chiropractic and Wellness Center.
“Are you going to menace them?” I asked. “Because if you are, they won’t talk to me, so you can just wait outside.”
Jim gave me a flat look and held the door open for me. I walked into a quiet reception area. The walls were painted a soothing mint green and large metal flowers decorated the wall. The air smeller faintly of rose geranium and lavender. Someone must’ve been warming some oils. A man in his thirties smiled at me from behind the counter. “May I help you?”
“Hi.” Jim approached the counter, his hand out. I looked at his face and my jaw dropped. Jim, the “punch through solid wall to get to the bad guy” Alpha, was gone. He looked . . . friendly. Concerned but friendly. Like he lived in a suburb and invited neighbors over for cookouts friendly.
Jim was shaking the man’s hand. “My name is Jim Shrapshire. This is my colleague, Dali. Her relative owns a salon two doors down from you.”
“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Cole Waller. We noticed Ms. Indrayani wasn’t here today. Is she alright?”
I picked my jaw off the floor and made my mouth move. “She isn’t feeling good this morning.”
Concern touched his face. It seemed genuine. “Sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing serious.”
To tell him or not to tell him? If I didn’t tell them, and this was connected to the property, they could be in danger.
“I’m afraid it is. Someone used magic to target her.”
“Seriously?” The man turned back and yelled, “Amanda!”
A blond woman emerged from the depths of the office. “Yes?”
“This is my wife, Amanda. She’s the chiropractor.” The man came out from behind the counter and stood next to his wife. “Someone tried to hurt that nice lady who owns the salon.”
Amanda blinked. “Ms. Indrayani? Oh my God, what happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine for now,” Jim said, his face concerned. “We believe someone targeted her because they want this property. Have you received any buyout offers?”
Cole frowned. “Yes. Yes, we have.”
He walked back behind the desk, opened a filing cabinet, riffled through the files hanging on the metal racks, and produced a piece of paper. I glanced at it. Abbot, Sadlowski, and Shirley letterhead, letter, enclosed offer to purchase. Dated two months ago.
“Did you agree to sell?” Jim asked.
“We thought about it,” Cole said. “The price was generous.”
“But this place is our own. It’s about five minutes from our house. We have an established client list,” Amanda said. “And our son’s school is only ten minutes from here. The bus drops him off two hundred feet down the street. It’s so nice. He walks here, gets a snack, does his homework and then we go home together. If we moved, he would have to be dropped off near our home and with the phones not working during magic, we wouldn’t even know if he made it or not. My older brother died on his way from school. He was run over . . .”
“We said no,” Cole finished for her and hugged her gently.
“Do you have any idea who the buyer is?” Jim asked.
Cole shook his head. “Got to be someone in the building. I’ve talked to some people, but nobody admitted it. The thing is, they’re offering two hundred and fifty grand. If it’s one of the owners and the other four got the same offer that makes it a cool million for the building. I can’t imagine any of us pulling together that kind of money. There is Vasil, who runs the deli. He works six days a week and half day on Sunday. Then there is the courier place next door. Never see more than three couriers there. The guy who runs it, Steve Graham, is some sort of fitness nut. Runs marathons and complains about how in the future magic is going to make everyone fat. Makes his couriers ride bicycles.”
“Dotes on his daughter,” Amanda said.
“Yes, he talks about her all the time.”
“The Eleventh Planet is run by two college kids,” Amanda said. “They host card games and have a tip jar on the counter. I’d be surprised if they have two nickels to rub together.”
“The thing I don’t understand is why,” Cole said. “The building’s kind of old and the location is great for us, but it’s not exactly Central Market Lane.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual?” I asked. “Strange behavior from the other owners, odd magic?”
“Unusual?” Amanda shook her head. “Well, Vasil isn’t here today. I suppose that’s unusual. He’s usually here like clockwork. A very nice man.”
“Do you think they’ll come after us?” Cole asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Jim said.
Amanda sighed. Her shoulders drooped. “God, if it’s not one thing, it’s the other. You know, even with all of the things that go on, I never worried about magic. I mostly worry about traffic accidents.”
Cole put his arm around his wife again.
I handed him a card with my name and phone number. “If something strange does happen, please call me.”
STEVEN Graham turned out to be a spare man in his forties. He looked like a bicycle enthusiast, his body toned, his frame narrow, and his movements economical, as he stood behind a counter, the wall behind him lined with sample box sizes and price stickers. The lone courier remaining in the office, on other hand, looked more like a doorman in some nightclub. Big, broad shoulders, chest slabbed with muscle. He gave Jim an I’m-a-bigger-man stare. Jim looked at him for a moment. The courier crossed his arms on his chest. Ha-ha.
When we were young, we could hide behind tables and chairs when threatened. But once we reached five, that behavior wasn’t acceptable anymore, so we folded our arms on our chest, forming a barrier and protecting vital organs. Judging by the courier’s clenched teeth and fists, he was building one hell of a barrier between himself and Jim. That’s right. My Jim is scary. It won’t help you, anyway.